The Flat on Fleet Street
by willowscribe
Summary: In which Sally Donovan, Molly Hooper, Irene Adler, and Harry Watson share a flat and nothing goes according to plan.


**This was originally supposed to be a quick oneshot to fill my friend's headcanon, but it turned into... well... probably the longest thing I've ever written in such a short period of time! But meh. BBC Sherlock is not mine, I just like to play in the sandbox. It's probably not the best thing I've ever written, but I'm proud of it anyway. Enjoy!**

_The Flat on Fleet Street_**  
**

Sally Donovan is not a patient woman. When she gets a case to investigate on her own, she takes it like a bull by the horns and throws herself into her work, barely stopping to eat or sleep. She can't stand having answers that she doesn't understand, motivations that float beyond her grasp. The longer it takes for her to put a case to rest, the more anxious she becomes, because the questions are gnawing away at her. She can't relax, can barely take time to breathe, because she _needs to know everything_.

It's natural that Sally should take a liking to Molly. Her latest case is a series of stabbings committed in the same area of the slums, stabbings that Sally is certain are connected. Molly is the mortician on duty when Sally requests to see the bodies, and Molly is the one who brings her a steaming hot coffee (black, one sugar) when Sally's eyes start to droop and her body begins to betray her.

Molly is helpful in that odd sort of way that Sally likes. She doesn't say much, doesn't volunteer pointless information, but when she does speak, it's always relevant.

"There's no bloody connection between any of them!" Sally shouts loudly, her gaze desperately sliding from one body to another. The four corpses lay out on display, three men, one woman, two middle-aged, one young, one old. She's already run searches on their friends, places of residence, work – anything that could possibly connect the four.

"Well…" Molly begins tentatively from where she was watching Sally work in the back of the room, "they all had… eyebrow piercings. When they came in. I mean, I don't know if it's important…" She looks embarrassed at having said anything, but Sally springs up from her slumped position with new energy.

"Molly, you're brilliant!" she says, her excitement clouding her better judgment. She has an answer now, just one answer, but there's a real, viable connection, and she'll be damned if she doesn't use it. "What did the piercings look like?"

Molly shows her the four different studs. One is silver, one is light blue, and two are shiny gold. "Who did they each belong to?" Sally asks.

Slowly, the pieces start to fall into place. Molly totters around the mortuary and is a generally helpful sounding board and Sally paces around the room, trying to figure out the importance of the piercings. Finally, Sally leaves to do research in the police data base on a drug ring that uses piercings to mark its sellers.

She calls Molly with the news, thrilled with herself and thrilled with the case. Molly seems genuinely happy to hear about Sally's results, and soon Sally finds herself unwinding as she chatters on at Molly, who appears to care about what she has to say.

"What are you going to do?" Molly asks as Sally mentions finding the killer.

"Well, we have a few possible motives now. But I think we need to plant someone as bait for the killer. Get them the right kind of piercing, the right look… make them blend in with the other dealers. Have the police back them up. Then we move in."

"That's… that's a really good idea." Over the phone, Molly sounds impressed. "Um, Sally, I was wondering… do you want to hang out some time? I mean, um, like friends, and, um, you know, talk or something? I, uh…"

Before Sally knows what she's doing, she says yes. "Do you want to meet at the park tomorrow? There's this little café nearby that has the best pastries this side of the Thames."

"Oh! Um… sure!" Molly sounds genuinely surprised that someone would want to hang out with her. "I'll, um, see you tomorrow!"

They end up agreeing to meet at noon so they can go and get lunch. It's not a date, just a meet-up between two… acquaintances. Acquaintances who certainly wouldn't mind becoming friends.

"My landlord's kicking me out," Sally sighs as she and Molly chat over lunch at the café. "He's upped the price of the rent and I just can't pay anymore. London's too expensive for someone with my paycheck."

"My landlord's not pleased with me either," Molly says. "The building I'm in has a strict No Pets policy, and I have this cat called Toby. The landlord found out, and, well, he's not exactly happy about it. I either have to give up Toby or move out."

Somehow, thirty minutes later, Sally and Molly are agreeing to share a flat. Sally's not quite sure how it happened, but she likes Molly well enough, and besides, she needs someone else to help her afford London. And Molly… Molly mostly wants to keep her cat.

That weekend, they poke around London and eventually settle on a flat on Fleet Street, near St. Bart's. The flat is a decent size – two bedrooms with a sitting area that overlooks the street – and Molly is allowed to keep her cat. They still both go to work, and half the time they don't even see each other for days on end due to their erratic schedules. Sally's finished up the eyebrow piercing case and has moved on to another one involving arson, while Molly is busy with a stream of new bodies due to some dangerous new strand of the flu going around.

Still, when they are in the flat together, they are friends. Sally leads, Molly follows, but they both enjoy themselves. When Molly spills her heart out to Sally about her ex-boyfriend who turned out to be insane, Sally is there to comfort her and force chocolate ice cream down her throat. When Sally is attacked by a criminal while in the middle of one of her cases, Molly's the one who sits her down and forces her to watch bad chick flicks all night to calm her down. They take care of each other.

Sally's a terrible cook, but Molly's wonderful at it. Molly's lazy when it comes to cleaning, but Sally's a neat-freak. Somehow, they balance each other out.

That's when Irene gets thrown into the mix.

Miss Irene Adler, of dubious and questionable memory, turns up on their doorstep one day out of the blue and demands to see Molly. Sally, blinking in confusion, allows her inside, whereupon Irene pounces on the poor girl. "We need to speak." She throws a sharp glance at Sally. "Alone."

Sally crosses her arms and tries her best to look intimidating. "No, sorry, out of the question. Say what you need to say and get out."

Irene glares at her. "I need to speak to Miss Hooper by herself. You need to leave."

"And I'm not going anywhere. What on earth should make me trust you? I'm not leaving you alone with Molly!" She gestures to the girl, who is sitting on the sofa, clutching Toby, and looking like she's in shock. "You're in _our_ flat. You have no right to order either of us around."

Irene pulls herself up to her full height, her eyes sharp and alert. "You're very protective of her." She gestures to Molly. "Is she your… pet?"

This seems to jolt Molly out of her stupor. "Sally, it's fine. You can leave us."

Sally nods once, sharply, and glares at Irene as she walks down the hall to her bedroom. Leaving the door cracked, Sally sits close to it, straining her ears to hear the conversation in the sitting room.

"Where is he?"

"I… I don't know!"

"Of course you know, Miss Hooper. A fool could tell that you know, and I am mostly certainly not a fool. Now, _where is he_?"

"Gone. I don't know, really, I don't. He stayed at my flat for two hours before he took off to find his brother. After that, I don't know."

"Really, Miss Hooper? Is that really everything you know?"

"Yes! How did you know he was alive?"

"Let's just say that I'm familiar with his tricks. He saved me from death once, you know."

"You were dead."

"I suppose that technically, I've died twice now. How fascinating."

"I _saw_ your corpse! You were _dead_!"

"You _saw_ his corpse too. How dead was he?"

A moment of silence.

"Fine. What do you want with him now?"

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose I'm just checking up on him. Making sure he's not killed himself for real..."

"Why would he do that?"

"He loves that man of his, Miss Hooper. It's been almost a year. How do you suppose he's coping without him?"

"What do you want?"

"I want to repay my debt to him. I don't like having unsettled debts, you know. But to do that, I have to find him first."

"Well, you won't find him here!"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps not…"

At this point, Sally can't stand it anymore. They're both talking about something she doesn't understand, but she doesn't like the dangerous purr in the strange woman's voice. She pushes the door open carefully and treads down the hall. When she arrives in the threshold to the sitting room, she finds Irene leaning in over Molly, stroking her cheek and looking positively predatory. Molly, on the other hand, is hunched in her seat, clutching Toby to her chest, eyes bubbling with unshed tears. Sally coughs loudly.

"I think you've had long enough," she says, feeling a white hot rage burning in her chest as she sees Molly looking so defeated. "Now get out."

Irene looks up, her gaze sharp. "I was just leaving."

"Yeah. Good." Sally's eyes narrow. "Get on with it then."

Irene stands up, once again drawing herself to her full height. "But, of course, Miss Donovan, I'll be back."

"No, you won't."

"Yes, I will." Irene's lips curl in a small smirk. "Miss Hooper here won't mind. Will you, Miss Hooper?" She leans over and before Sally knows what she's seeing, Irene has pulled Molly into a searing, possessive kiss. "The name is Irene Adler," she says once she's pulled away. "I've died twice, travelled the world, blackmailed the government, and walked away scott free. Miss Hooper here is now mine. Understand? Good." She winks. "Afternoon." With that, Irene strides out the door, leaving both Sally and Molly in a state of shock. Sally turns to face Molly while Molly presses the fingertips to her lips, the pads of her fingers coming away with the blood red lipstick Irene was wearing.

"Who was she?"

When Molly finally speaks, her voice is toneless and vague.

"She… she used to be one of my corpses."

One week after Irene's appearance, Sally decides to save Molly some time and make breakfast for the two of them. After a disastrous attempt at making muffins, Sally gives up and runs across the street to the baker's. She returns to the flat, purchase in hand, and sets it gently on the kitchen table before popping her in the door to Molly's room.

"Molly? I've got… breakfast…"

Molly lays curled up on the bed, still fast asleep. Next to her, arms wrapped around Molly's middle, is Irene Adler, hair down and face softened by sleep. Sally blinks for a moment and stands in the doorframe gaping like a fish before stepping back out into the hallway and taking several calming breaths. When she sticks he head back inside the room, Irene is sitting up and giving her a weary look. Sally tries her best to convey her anger without waking Molly, but Irene does nothing but smirk and lay down again, curling an arm around Molly once more.

Sally, trembling with rage, grips the doorframe tightly, trying to figure out what to do. Finally, she gestures sharply for Irene to come and join her in the hallway. Irene raises an eyebrow lazily but finally acquiesces Sally's request. Once the door to Molly's room is closed once again, Sally presses Irene up against the wall, adrenaline pounding through her body.

"What are you doing here? And what are you doing with Molly?" she hisses, her face close to Irene's.

"Touchy." Irene blows a puff of hot breath in Sally's face. "She invited me here."

"She… invited you?" Sally asks in a strangled voice.

"Yes, she did. We've been meeting every day this past week, which you would know if you were bothered enough to care about her." Irene tips her head slightly, and Sally gets the distinct sense that Irene is making fun of her.

"She invited you into her _bed_?"

"Well, maybe that bit was a bit presumptuous of me." Irene grins slightly. "But she certainly didn't protest when she woke up last night and found me there. You're a terrible cop if you don't even realise when someone is breaking into your own home."

"Shut it." Sally glares at the woman, which only seems to make Irene's smile bigger, and Sally gets the distinct sense that Irene is making fun of her. "What do you want?"

"What do I _want_?" Irene leans forward until her face is mere centimetres from Sally's own, her voice low and husky. "I want to find someone. And Molly is helping me do just that."

"How?"

"You don't need to know." Irene leans back, that same casually teasing expression on her back. "But I'll be staying here for a while. What were you saying about breakfast?"

"You… you are not staying here!" Sally's voice is raised, and she's half-hoping she won't wake Molly, half-hoping that she will.

"Oh, but I am. I won't be much of a bother, trust me."

"You're already a bother," Sally growls, and Irene laughs lightly.

"Well, tiger, I'll try my best to stay out of your way." Irene pats Sally's head like she's a small child, slips out of her grasp, and saunters down the hallway, her body language reeking of confidence. Sally stands, open-mouthed, gaping at the spot where Irene had just been. How could a woman she barely knew invite herself to move in with them? And moreover, since when was Molly allowing it? A little over a week before, Irene had been nothing but one of Molly's corpses, and now she's alive, well, and planning on sharing their flat (and by the looks of it, Molly's bed). Sally is surprised by the amount of rage she feels at the thought, and she suddenly realises that somewhere along the line, she's taken Molly under her wing to protect and care for. Molly is innocent, pure, almost child-like. She likes kittens and pink ribbons and flowers and bows. And Sally certainly won't have the likes of Irene Adler take that innocence away.

But Irene does stay. Sally finds her in the kitchen later that day, munching on the pastries she'd picked up from the baker's. Under Sally's wrathful glare, Irene smirks and dances away, disappearing from the room, and, it seems, the flat, for most of the day. When Sally gets home from work later that afternoon, she finds Irene camped out on the couch, watching a game show on the telly and explaining to Molly how ridiculous the whole thing is. Molly is sitting there too, curled up on a large chair, her eyes fixed on Irene instead of the television. Irene's hair is down and rolls in soft waves, making her seem more approachable somehow.

"Look at the woman on the left, the one with the beer gut. See, she's had at least two children and probably needs to money to pay child maintenance. She's divorced, recently divorced, and she can't live off her husband's wages anymore. She has to find a way to care for her children and manage her drinking habit on her own, but it's not been easy for her to find a job looking like she does. She doesn't have a very professional look, or at least, she doesn't know what a professional look should be." Irene leans in, closer to the television. "She's almost certain she knows the answer to this question, so she's going to bet on it, but not much, in case she is wrong. There, see!" Irene sits back, pleased with herself as the woman does just as she said.

"How can you know things like that?" Molly asks. "I mean, Sherlock could, but he was different from everyone else."

"And I'm not? I'm hurt." Irene mocks being shot in the heart. "It was simple, really. Even you could figure out as much if you applied yourself, Molly. Sherlock is just as human and you or I. He just has a phenomenal memory and doesn't give a damn what anyone thinks about him."

"Oh." Molly bites her lip. "You remind me of him."

"Should I be flattered?" Irene grins devilishly at Molly. Molly smiles softly.

"Oh, yes! Yes, definitely!"

Finally Sally can place it, what it is she so dislikes about Irene, what it is that just puts her off to the woman. It's because _Irene is like Sherlock_. She's confident in her intelligence, and is happy to rub it in the face of any mere mortal who dares cross her. More than that, she's happy walking right into Sally's life and taking what she wishes from it, stamping all over it and then whisking away like none of it ever really mattered in the first place.

But Molly _does_ matter.

"So, how did you do it? How could you tell all that about her?"

Irene shoots Molly a winning grin. "It's easy enough. Two children – she's too lazy to bother exercising, you can tell by the size of her and the way she holds herself… slumped using as little effort as possible. The weight around her stomach is different, it's pregnancy weight, weight she never lost. Recently divorced – she keeps fiddling with her left finger, where her wedding ring would be. It's a nervous tic, so she still hasn't come to terms with the divorce yet. It's also an unconscious movement, probably made most when she's thinking about her ex-husband and children, so she's trying to win the money, not for her ex, but for her kids. No job – she has a heavy drinking habit and a recent divorce, so whoever's been funding her drinking is gone now, so her husband was the only one who worked. Can't find a new job – see how she's dressed. All the other contestants are in nice clothes: blouses and suit jackets, dark pants or skirts, but she's wearing an oversized t-shirt with some faded old jeans. She can't afford to look professional, and so can't get a job in order to pay to look professional." Irene looks rather pleased with herself. "O, the cycle of poverty!"

Molly giggles. "Brilliant! That was absolutely brilliant!" Irene seems to soak it up like a gluttonous sponge. At this point, Sally can barely stand it anymore and coughs loudly.

"Sorry, I'm trying not to gag over here," she says. "Could you keep your ridiculous displays of affection in the bedroom? Thanks." She's being sarcastic, but Irene, sharp as usual, quirks her eyebrow at Sally over Molly's shoulder as if to say _'Sounds like a good plan.'_

Sally groans loudly and stomps into the kitchen.

After two weeks, Sally gives up on trying to be rational when it comes to Irene and takes to leaving the room pointedly every time Irene enters. She thinks Irene is still sleeping in Molly's bed, although she does not know (nor does she want to know) if they are actually sleeping together. She elects to think not, because Molly is soft and innocent and she doesn't even want to think of what sex with Irene would do to the girl.

Whenever they're forced into interacting, Molly always accompanies them, and she mostly sits around uncomfortably while Sally glares at Irene and Irene smirks back. Finally, Sally snaps.

"What have you done with Molly? Who gave _you_ the right to come into _our_ flat and decide to live here? Who gave _you_ the right to keep Molly as your… as your pet? She's not a pet, she's a person, and it's time you treated her like one!"

"You're quite right, of course." Irene, elegant as always, sits back on a chair at the kitchen table. "But Molly isn't my pet. Not quite. She's more of a… companion."

"She used to be my _friend_," Sally growls. "Now she barely speaks to me. Instead, she follows you around like a poor lost puppy! What. Have. You. Done? Why _her_?"

Irene sighs, and for the first time, Sally doesn't think she's making fun of her. "There's two reasons," she says, and her voice is soft with repressed pain. "For starters, she likes me because I remind her of Sherlock. She had a huge crush on him for a time, but eventually they came to be… if not friends, then partners in his work. With him gone, she's latched on to the closest thing she can find, which is me. _I_, on the other hand, like Molly because she reminds me of an old girlfriend of mine. Soft, sweet, but clever in her own way. Kate was a lovely girl, you know." Irene smiles, and Sally gets the sense she's not seeing the flat at Fleet Street, but a faraway location with this Kate by her side.

"What happened to her?" Sally asks quietly.

"She died. Was killed, actually. I thought she was only unconscious at the time. She was supposed to recover. She was supposed to be okay. But… she never woke up. So." Irene bites her lip. "She was wonderful, Katie. Absolutely wonderful."

Neither of them say anything for a moment. "Okay," Sally finally says. "Okay. Fine. But if you hurt her in any way…"

"I will not." Irene extends a hand lightly across the table. "I give you my word."

Sally stares for a moment, then shakes Irene's hand in agreement. "Well… good. And I… um… well… I'm really sorry about Kate. Um…"

Irene smiles softly. "Thank you."

Neither of them mentions the conversation in the kitchen when Molly gets home from the morgue. From thereon out, they brush by each other as comfortably as two women of such conflicting personalities could. Irene still pisses Sally off to no end, but Molly seems to grow increasingly attached to the woman, so Sally restrains herself when she feels like letting loose and telling Irene what a massive dick she can be some of the time. Irene, for her part, tries her best not to rub Sally the wrong way, but isn't afraid to let her rather bold personality shine. They clash, naturally, but they try to tolerate each other for the sake of their one common denominator, Molly.

Of course, it could never last.

Irene tells Sally one day that she's planning on helping out with the rent, but to do that, she needs to be able to do her work.

"And what sort of work do _you_ do?" Sally asks, unable to believe that Irene's done the slightest bit of work in her entire life.

"Oh, various things. I specialize in a… very specific market."

"A specific market?"

"Yes. I'm world-renowned, you know."

"For _what_?"

Irene grins. "Pain."

Sally blinks. "Pain?"

"Yes." Irene inspects one of her perfect nails carefully. "I've gotten bored sitting around doing nothing. So I've decided to open up shop again."

"So you're a hooker."

"Not quite." Irene smirks. "I'm more high-end than that. I'm a dominatrix."

Sally's eyes close briefly as she takes all this in. When she opens them again, she says, "And you want to, what, do business here? In this flat?"

"Not here. But around the city, yes."

"I…" Sally trails off. "Have you talked to Molly about this?"

"No. I will, later, if you say yes. You're the battle to win, Sally." Sally crosses her arms and thinks on this. "Of course," Irene continues, "if you say no, I'll have nothing to do with my time. I'll just sit around the flat all day, using the utilities, eating your food, and draining your money. If I were… allowed to practice my profession…"

Sally laughs wryly. "You do know I'm a cop, right? I could have you arrested right now and out of my hair for good."

"But you wouldn't do that, would you?" Irene leans forward and tucks a strand of Sally's hair behind her ear, the motion allowing her to run her hand across Sally's cheek. "You're curious. You want to know what I do to make me so famous. You want to know everything, Miss Donovan." She brings her hand down to Sally's chin, stroking her skin softly. "You want to know everything about everything there is to know. But I'm an enigma. You don't understand me. It's why you hate me so much." She presses her face close to Sally's own, forcing Sally's head up to face her. "You're _curious_. So go on. Explore. Discover. That is…" Irene pauses for a moment, and Sally's heart rate elevates, "if you're not too scared to do so."

"I'm not scared of anything," Sally growls, and presses her lips to Irene's.

Irene is a good kisser, Sally has to admit. She can see why Molly likes her so much. But Sally's aggressive in her own right, and the kiss has become more than just a kiss, but a battle for power, for dominance. Irene may be the dominatrix, but Sally is a copper, and a damn good one too, and she won't back down from anyone.

The sex is good, probably the best sex Sally's had in years. Of course, Irene is trained in the whole thing, practiced in every arch of her back, every breathy moan she emits from her throat. Still, Sally thinks as she comes down from her orgasm, Caleb Anderson can't even begin to compare.

By the time Molly gets home that evening, Sally and Irene are both dressed and presentable. Irene greets Molly with a kiss, and Sally gets that same squirmy feeling in her stomach that she gets whenever she sees Caleb with his wife. It should be different, she tells herself. Molly knows how Irene is, how she'll flirt with anyone that has a heartbeat. Molly may not be happy about it, but she'd understand if she ever found out. It was nothing but an experiment, after all! All a part of Sally's quest for knowledge. But she has to admit, she'd never gone so far as to shag her best friend's girlfriend, even if said girlfriend is a prostitute, no matter how much she denies it.

Still, Sally feels irrationally guilty, even when she hears Irene and Molly discussing Irene's business options later that evening. Molly consents, naturally, because she tends to agree to everything Irene wants. Surely that makes it all right, Sally tries to convince herself. Molly had just said that she'd be fine with Irene shagging people for money!

When Irene slips out that evening to make her first call, Sally and Molly sit down on the sofa with a bowl of popcorn between them and watch reruns of EastEnders. Sally can hardly stand to look at Molly, and Molly seems painfully oblivious to the whole thing.

As they hit the ending credits of an episode, Molly reaches over and hits the mute button on the remote. They sit there in silence for a moment, hardly daring to speak to each other, before Molly finally says, "So, what happened while I was out?"

Should she tell the truth? Should she lie? How much does Molly know? How much has Irene told her?

"Irene and I had a shag."

"Oh." Molly's voice is quiet. "Okay. Why?"

Sally searches inside herself for the justifications she's been preparing, but can come up with nothing that doesn't sound half-arsed and self-serving. "Because I was curious."

Molly bites her lip. "Okay." To Sally's horror, she can see Molly's eyes beginning to swell with tears. "Okay."

Sally wants to curl into a tiny ball and forget it ever happened. "I'm sorry, Molly. I don't really know why… it just kind of… happened. It was…" She searches for words. "It was… a competition. A challenge, really. I… I can't really justify it. I didn't… I don't… I don't want to hurt you. I don't know what you and Irene have, exactly, but I knew it was wrong and I should have… I should have stopped it."

Molly shakes her head and makes a wet-sounding noise. "No, no. Irene isn't my exclusive right. I know how she is. I know what she does. It was silly of me to expect…" She blows her noise loudly. "It was silly to expect that she'd be… you know… monogamous. It's just…" She struggles for words. "It's just that it was _you_. It's easier when it's strangers, you know? People you don't know and will never see again. But _you_…"

Sally reaches her arm around Molly and pulls her in for a hug. "I know," she says, "and I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Molly sniffles.

"It doesn't matter. It's fine."

And even though Molly says it's fine, Sally feels like something broke that night between them. Their trust, their bond… whatever it was, Molly doesn't come to Sally with her problems anymore, and Sally knows that it's all her fault. Molly doesn't seem to blame Irene, but Sally doesn't know what goes on behind the closed door to their room anymore, nor does she think she wants to. But Molly seems… hardened, somehow. And it's all wrong. Everything's gone wrong.

Sally breaks up with Caleb Anderson the day after she speaks to Molly. She's seen what one wrong impassioned moment has done to Molly, and even if she doesn't know Caleb's wife, she wouldn't wish that moment of stunned shock, that moment of ultimate betrayal, on anyone.

Irene seems quieter too, which both surprises Sally and puts her off kilter. She knows how to deal with Irene when she's being insufferable, but a sensitive Irene throws Sally off. She knows the steps to their usual dance, but their one moment together has started something entirely new, and Sally isn't sure that she likes it.

Then, one night, while Irene is out working, Molly comes home with a new woman. "Sally," she says, biting her lip nervously, "this is Harry Watson. Harry, this is Sally Donovan."

"Hello," Harry says, stepping forward and giving Sally a firm handshake. "You're the woman who ruined my brother's life. Pleased to meet you." Sally isn't sure if she's being sarcastic or just blunt. She doesn't think she can handle another snake like Irene.

"Harry's a friend," Molly says, rushing to cover up for the moment of awkward silence that follows. "She came to live with John after… well. You know."

"I bet she does," says Harry, giving Sally an appraising look. "Well, she can be a vindictive bitch, but she mostly lives in the moment and doesn't think about the consequences of her actions." She gives Sally a hearty slap on the back. "You're a fool, but that's all." She turns to Molly. "I can tolerate her presence for a few hours."

Harry, as it turns out, isn't Molly's girlfriend. John had introduced the two of them when Molly came over to visit one day, and they'd hit it off. Watching the two of them interact, Sally feels lonelier than ever. She's not Molly's best friend anymore, that's for certain. She's not entirely sure they're even friends. But watching Harry interacting with Molly, Sally is certain that she's been replaced.

"Excuse me," she says after about an hour. "I'm going out." And she does. She finds her way to a pub a few blocks over and drinks until she calls Caleb and makes plan to hook up. She's halfway to the hotel in a drunken stupor when she realises what she's doing. She wages war internally for a few moments, but in the end, she's too tired to care. Sally's not required to be a good person all the time. Nobody is. And right now, she needs to have at least one person in the world that can look at her without hatred.

When she wakes up the next morning, Caleb is gone and she has a massive hangover. She suspects that the previous night's activities were not exactly up to par, given her intoxicated state, but she doesn't give a damn. Caleb had touched her without disgust, shagged her without expectations, and that was all she'd really wanted in the first place. To be loved with no strings attached.

When she arrives at the flat later that day, she finds Irene and Molly on the couch, their limbs so intertwined that she can't even tell which body part belongs to which person. They're both sound asleep, and Sally assumes that if they were having issues before, they're gone now. Molly raises her head and blinks blearily, focusing on Sally's haphazard appearance, before slowly extracting herself from Irene. "I'm sorry," she says as she crosses the room and gives Sally a hug. "Bringing Harry over… well, she's not exactly tactful. I should have known that she'd…"

"It's fine," Sally says. "It doesn't matter. I know what I did, and I know how it must seem to her. But I still think that I did the right thing. It doesn't matter."

"But it does!" Molly says. "I saw how you looked at us. You felt left out. You were sad. And I didn't do anything!"

"It's not your job to monitor my emotional state."

"But I'm your friend!" Molly looks genuinely upset. "Where were you all night? I stayed up after Harry left. I was even awake when Irene came home. But you never came back…" Her lower lip wobbles. "I haven't been nice to you since the thing with Irene, and it's not fair." Sally opens her mouth to protest, but Molly pushes on. "No, I know. I wasn't happy about what you did, but you're my friend. It's my job to forgive you, especially over something as stupid as that."

"But it wasn't stupid," Sally says. "It mattered to you. It mattered a lot! I saw what it did to you!" She lowers her voice. "You know that I broke up with Caleb because of it… but last night… I just… we…"

"You didn't…" Molly breathes.

Sally chokes back a sob. "I did."

"Oh, Sally." Molly hugs her again. "It's okay. We all do stupid things."

"He's going to expect us to get back together again."

"So what?"

"What do I tell him? 'No, sorry, I don't want a relationship, but if I'm ever in the mood for a pity shag, I'll give you a call?'"

"You tell him that it was a mistake. Then you don't speak to him unless it's professionally."

"And what if it happens again? What if I just need…?"

"You come home. You talk to me. And if it can't be fixed by ice cream and EastEnders, then you and Irene go and do what you have to, and I won't judge you for it."

"You're giving me permission...?"

Molly shrugs. "I wouldn't be able to have a relationship with Irene unless I accepted that she'd be sleeping with other people. And, if it makes you feel better, I'd rather you were shagging her than Caleb Anderson. At least then we keep our weirdness within the flat."

Sally sniffs and nods. "Okay. I… thank you."

"But make sure you come to me first!" Molly adds laughingly. "I won't have you snatching my girlfriend away from me!"

Sally laughs as well. "Trust me, Irene and I would kill each other first."

That night, Harry comes over for dinner. She and Molly talk most of the time, while Sally and Irene sit somewhat awkwardly and on occasion exchange glances. It's the friendliest they've ever been, Sally thinks.

Later that evening, Molly insists they all watch a movie. "It'll be a girl's night!" she exclaims. "You can all get to know Harry."

"I know enough," Irene sniffs, giving Harry a searching glance.

"Hush," says Molly. "We know that you know everything. Sit with us anyway."

The four of them end up crammed on the couch. Molly curls up against Irene, while Sally and Harry sit next to each other and try not to make eye contact. The movie Molly picked out ends up being some ridiculous chick flick with little plot and a lot of overdone romance. By the end of the movie, Irene's rolling her eyes, Molly's hugging a pillow, Harry's fallen asleep, and Sally is still sitting as stiffly as ever, trying her best not to touch Harry at all. She's not sure if she's just projecting her guilt and paranoia, but she's certain that Harry hates her.

Of course, Sally can't blame her. Her meddling in the whole Sherlock Holmes affair did lead to the man's suicide, and thus John's depression. She doesn't regret her actions, though. Even if it had a tragic end, she did what she thought was right. And she _did_ have good reason to think she was right. So no matter how much Harry hates her for it, Sally knows that she'd still stand by her decision any day.

The credits begin to roll and Harry jerks awake with a start. "Huh – what – what'd I miss?"

"You fell asleep?" Molly sounds scandalised. "But Allen and Vanessa didn't start working out what happened with Jane until the end!"

"Damn. I really missed out."

"You did! I don't see how…"

Irene wraps both arms around Molly and pulls her into her chest. "Dearie, it really was a terrible movie."

"It was not! It was poignant and emotional and very evocative at times!"

"It spoon-fed you the entire plot and no one showed any character development the entire time," Irene points out, and Harry nods vehemently in agreement.

"Well, I liked it," Molly says with a pout.

"That's all well and good, but never make me watch it again," says Harry, "or I can't be held responsible for my actions."

Before she knows what she's doing, Sally gives a light laugh. Harry's head whips around and she gives Sally a scrutinizing look. Finally, she says, "You thought that was funny, cop girl?"

Sally doesn't know what to say. "Um… yes?"

"Don't answer questions with questions," Harry says. "Be direct. Did you think that was funny?"

"I… yes!"

"Good." Harry nods. "I can tolerate your presence slightly more." She eyes Sally carefully. "I'll try not to be offended by you, and you try not to be offended by me, and we just may get along."

"Why would I…?"

"Be offended by me? There are a couple of reasons." Harry takes a deep breath. "I'm blunt, I can be a total bitch, I have no filter when I speak, I don't give a shite about most people, I punch things when I'm angry, I eat more than I probably should, I have the mouth of a sailor, I'm lazy as fuck, and in general I'm a person you don't want to spend time around. I know that people hate me, and I accept that, so I just fucking hate them right back." She grins wryly. "It's not a bad way to live, you know, but it does tend to piss people off."

"But Harry!" Molly exclaims, "you're not at all that bad!"

Harry gives a derisive snort. "Of course I am. I know myself better than anyone else, and I am a fucking horrible person. I honestly don't know why anyone talks to me at all!"

Molly sniffles. "You're not a bad person, Harry. You're _not_."

"Of course I am! I've tried being nice, and I didn't really work out. I mean, I hate that I'm such a bitch, but…" Harry shrugs, "it's just who I am. I'm used to it."

"No!" Molly leaps out of Irene's embrace and pounces on Harry. "No!" she says, hugging Harry tightly. "I've known you for months now –"

"Only two months."

"– and I _know_ that you're not bad! You're nice! You rage against social injustice practically every day!"

"That's because I'm fucking gay. I _have_ to deal with social injustice."

Molly looks frustrated. "You don't get it! Not everyone hates you! You're not this… this… _stain_ on the world! You're perfect how you are! I _like_ you how you are!"

Harry sighs heavily. "You're a sweetheart, Molly, but you just don't get it." She stands up, and Molly steps back. "I'm going back to John's flat. I need a drink and I need someone to stop me from having it." She waves half-heartedly. "Ciao."

"Harry, no!" Molly exclaims. "You're _bound_ to pass a bar on the way home! What if you can't stop yourself?"

"Then I fucking deserve what I get, don't I?"

"You shouldn't think like that!" Molly's practically shaking with frustration. "Just stay here. For tonight. Sally's got a trundle bed in her room, you can stay on that. Please, Harry. Let _us_ be the ones to stop you." She gives Harry a pleading look. "Trust us. Trust _me_."

Harry trembles for a moment and seems to internalize all her self-loathing and pain. She breathes once, deeply, then nods. "If Sally agrees…"

Sally blinks suddenly, aware that the focus on the conversation has shifted back to her. "Of course you can stay," she says, and Harry sags with relief.

"Thanks, cop girl."

Later that night, Sally tosses and turns in her bed, trying to get to sleep. The unfamiliar pattern of Harry's breathing sounds loud in the room and makes Sally hyperaware of her every move. She feels uncomfortable here, in this room, with the woman who so obviously is disgusted by her every move. Yes, Sally understand where she's coming from, but at the same time, she doesn't know if she can stand having one more person who hates her consistently in her life, let alone in the same bedroom. She and Irene just barely have an agreement of sorts, where they're not exactly friends, but they don't actively antagonize each other either.

Sally thinks that if one more person decides to hate her, she just might break. She can't even trust herself not to ruin her own life.

At work the next day, Caleb comes up to her and tries to strike up a conversation. Sally wants to get out of it, but at the same time, Caleb is one of the few people who will talk to her anymore. Following Sherlock's suicide, most of the Yarders seemed to change their stances on the subject of his honesty, and the man was now spoken of like a revered god of sorts. Stories of the great Sherlock Holmes are told in whispers and gossip, making him seem like a deity come to earth. Even those who worked with Sherlock have started to forget what he was truly like – rude, condescending, and secretive – and instead speak of him as a kind and compassionate soul who solved crimes out of the good of his heart.

And they all hate Sally. Greg has been forgiven because he was a friend of Sherlock's and had no choice in informing the higher-ups. Sally and Caleb haven't gotten off so lightly. All those others who shared their suspicions but changed their minds when the wind shifted now refuse to even associate with them. Sally's even heard them call her "the she-Judas." It hurts, but she knows she has to stick to her guns until the end. There's more proof that she was right than that she was wrong.

Unfortunately, that means Caleb is her only co-worker who will speak to her. And after trying her best to ignore him, as per Molly's advice, Sally finds that Caleb is as persistent as a pathetic lost puppy.

"How about tonight?" he says to her in a low voice over the water cooler. "The same hotel as last time." He winks, and Sally glares.

"Bugger off."

There's no one around. Caleb grabs her waist and pulls her close. He lets his other hand caress her breast slowly as he speaks in low tones. "Come on, don't be like that. I know you miss me." He squeezes her breast. "I miss you."

Sally pulls away. "No, and fuck you."

Caleb shrugs. "Your loss. But if I had my way tonight, I'd fuck you into that hotel bed so hard you wouldn't be able to see straight." He leans closer, still speaking quietly. "I'd pound your eager pussy and you'd enjoy it like the slut you know you are."

"Go away. Now."

"Tonight. At nine. I know you'll be there." He slaps her arse and turns away.

"I should report you!" Sally calls after him. Caleb turns around, laughing lightly.

"And who would believe you? You know what I heard them call you yesterday? 'The bitch who cried wolf.'"

Sally tries her best to glare at him. "I'm no slut!" Of course she isn't. That's Irene's job. Caleb snorts in disbelief and turns away.

Irene's job… Suddenly, Sally is taken with a new idea.

"Caleb!" she calls after him, and he pivots back around, lecherous smirk on his face.

"Yes, my dear?"

"Do you mind if I bring a friend?"

Caleb's smirk only widens. "A woman?"

"Yes."

"The more, the merrier! You're such an eager slut." He gives her a winning grin. "I knew you'd come around."

Later that evening, when Sally tells Irene her plan, the woman is thrilled. In fact, she thinks it's hilarious. "You're lucky I'm not booked with anyone important," she says as she calls up her client to cancel. "I only change my schedule for a few people."

"Thank you," Sally says warmly. Irene's eyes twinkle.

"How hard-core do you want it to be?"

Sally's eyes narrow in determination. "Give him your very worst."

When they both leave the flat later that evening, Irene's carrying a large bag stuffed to the brim with her equipment. Handcuffs, ropes, vibrators, whips, cock ring, the works. At the very top of the pile, Sally knows, is Irene's favourite riding crop. They arrive at the hotel fashionably late, and the ride up the elevator seems to take a small eternity. Sally shifts nervously, and Irene puts a warm hand on the arm calmingly.

"Sally. It'll be fine. By the time I'm done with him, he won't want anything to do with you. I promise."

Sally relaxes slightly. "Thank you so much for doing this."

Irene laughs lightly. "Not at all! You're my friend, and friends help each other out."

Irene considers Sally her friend? Sally blinks in confusion and is still trying to sort through her thoughts when the elevator dings on the eleventh floor. Since when were she and Irene ever friends? Sally thought Irene actively disliked her!

Of course, it was Irene she was thinking about. Irene, the queen of masks and secrets. Sally could hardly be expected to read her mind, but for Irene to consider them friends…

Sally absentmindedly slips the key card into the door and opens it softly. Inside the room, she can see Caleb look up. "So you did come," he says, putting away his phone quickly. "Where's your friend?"

"Right here," Sally says, and she moves aside to reveal Irene. Irene gives Caleb a soft and disturbingly uncharacteristic smile.

"Oh, Sally!" she squeals, her voice three pitches higher than normal. "You didn't say he was _handsome_."

Caleb seems to inflate at the statement. Sally grins. "Caleb, since I brought Irene along, I thought we could try something new tonight. Just lay back on the bed… there you go… and close your eyes… let us take care of you…"

The handcuffs have snapped shut before Caleb Anderson even has a chance to register what's going on.

When the Sally and Irene arrive back at the flat, it's two in the morning and they're both giggling like schoolgirls. "Did you see his face when…?" Sally begins, and Irene chokes with laughter before she even finishes her sentence. "Are all your clients like that?"

Irene shakes her head, still halfway hysterical. "Most of them want it. The first-timers find out quickly enough if it's for them or not. Besides, they all have a safe word." She snorts in a distinctly unladylike manner. "I don't think he'll be bothering you anymore if he thinks that's what you're in to."

Sally laughs as well as she unlocks the door to the flat. As the door creaks open, Molly's head appears over the edge of the sofa. "How'd it go?" she asks, yawning slightly.

"You stayed up?" Irene asks. "Oh, dearie, you could have gone to bed."

Molly shakes her head. "It's the least I could do. I wanted to make sure everything went all right."

"Let's just say he'll be having a hard time sitting at his desk tomorrow," Sally says lightly, and she and Irene both dissolve into giggles again. "It's late, I'm tired, I can't think. Thanks for staying up, Molly, but I'm off to bed."

"Come on, dearie," Irene whispers, taking Molly in her arms. "We should get to bed ourselves."

The next morning at breakfast, as the three of them eat together, Sally and Irene actually have a friendly conversation. It's about something entirely nonsensical, but it proves to Sally that something actually did change in their relationship the previous night, and it gives her hope for a better future, a future where she and Irene won't be at war every second of the day.

At work, she doesn't see Caleb anywhere. No one will talk to her, but at the same time, she'd rather be ignored completely than be bothered by the likes of Caleb Anderson. The thing is, the previous day, Caleb was right when he said that no one would listen to her even if she was telling the truth. All the Yarders have turned completely against her, so much that if she were ever in real trouble, she couldn't even go to the police about it. She wouldn't want to risk it, risk the jeers of her co-workers, the hurtful whispers behind her back. She knew what they'd say.

"_She brought it on herself."_

"_They were already together, I heard. Having an affair."_

"_It's her fault, anyway. She shouldn't have being leading him on."_

What would she have done if she hadn't been able to go to Irene? What could have happened if she didn't have someone to help her take care of it?

It makes her value Molly and Irene even more than she already does.

Harry comes over again that evening, and the four of them end up playing a game of Cluedo. Irene wins before the rest of them even have a chance, but they enjoy it all the same. Harry is boisterous and unashamedly comes in last place, having not figured out anything. Sally, who had the location and the murderer, comes in second, and Molly, having figured out only the weapon, comes in third. "It's not fair!" Harry laughs loudly. "You're a genius –" She gestures to Irene. "– and _you're_ a copper! Poor Molly and I didn't stand a chance!"

"Detective work isn't quite like Cluedo…" Sally begins, but Irene interrupts.

"You had a drink last night," she says, staring at Harry analytically.

Harry sit up straighter, her body language entirely defensive. "So what if I did?"

"Oh, Harry, no!" Molly exclaims, grabbing her friend's arm. "Why?"

Harry sighs and runs a hand through her thinning hair. "I was tired. I was thinking about Clara… you know how it is," she says to Molly, who nods quickly. "So I just… had a drink."

"It was more than one, though," says Irene, eyebrow raised. "It was quite a few drinks."

"How can she do that?" Harry says loudly to Molly. "Yeah, I had _quite a few_," she adds, glaring at Irene. "But I fucking needed it."

"Oh, _Harry_!" Molly sounds supremely disappointed. "You can't drink anymore! You just _can't_!"

"Well sometimes I can't help it," Harry snaps. "Sometimes, I just need it."

"Stay with us." Sally is surprised to discover that she's the one who's speaking. "Come live with us. We have the trundle bed in my room. And you come over here so often you might as well live here anyway. Maybe we can help you. Between all four of us, maybe we can beat it, yeah?"

"You want me… to live here… with you…" says Harry slowly. "You sure, cop girl?"

Sally glances around the table. Molly looks at her with pleading eyes and Irene nods her head curtly in consent. "Of course," she says. "We'd love to have you."

And so Harry Watson moves in to the flat on Fleet Street.

Harry feels guilty over leaving her brother at first, and still makes a point to visit him frequently, but as she settles in, she seems to grow happier and happier. There are good days and there are bad days for Harry. On good days, she's loud and exuberant and wants to talk to everyone about everything. On bad days, she speaks very little and keeps to herself and complains about being perpetually tired. On the bad days especially, they all make a point of having at least one person at home with her at all times. Sally very rarely gets caught with Harry-sitting duty because her schedule can be unpredictable – after all, criminals don't follow a calendar – but on the few times she does, she makes an effort to speak to Harry without all the awkwardness involved. To be fair, Harry does try to meet her halfway, but there's still an underlying tension in all their words.

Still, the good days start to outnumber to bad days, and Harry seems mostly happy. To everyone's surprise, she bonds especially with Irene, who is practically Harry's polar opposite. Where Irene is refined, Harry is crass, where Irene is eloquent, Harry is blunt. Somehow, though, they manage to get along positively swimmingly.

"We've all seen darkness," Harry says one day while Sally's Harry-sitting. "We all have skeletons in the closet. It's just that, in a way, Irene and I have similar skeletons." She laughs wryly. "We're all screwed up somehow, aren't we?"

She has a point. Sally's sharing a flat with a mortician, a dominatrix, and a recovering alcoholic – not exactly the most likely band of friends, she'll admit.

"I think Molly's normal," Sally volunteers tentatively, and Harry laughs gruffly.

"She's not exactly white as snow," Harry says, "though of all of us, she's probably the most well-adjusted."

"Probably," Sally agrees. They sit in silence for a moment. Then, Sally dares ask the question she's been dancing around for weeks. "So… how's your brother?"

Harry's gaze hardens. "He's doing as well ask can be expected." She shoots Sally a glance. "He's limping again."

"Oh."

"He doesn't go out in public unless he has to. The press is still following him around."

"Oh."

"You know what the worst part is?" Harry suddenly shouts. "He survived two tours in Afghanistan. He survived our father's drinking. He's survived everything life's thrown at him and come out relatively sane and well-adjusted. And now…" She lowers her voice and chokes back a sob. "His therapist has him diagnosed with clinical depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. He sometimes goes for days on end without eating. And I moved out! I left him all alone!" She grabs her hair and pulls hard. "I'm so _selfish_!"

Sally's never been good at comforting people. That's Molly's job. Nor is she the best with words – that's Irene's area of expertise. But she does know what it is to feel guilty, so she decides to try her best anyway.

"Harry, you have no reason to feel guilty. You visit your brother practically every day. And he has that landlady of his to take care of him. And I know Greg checks up on him two or three times a week. John has people to take care of him. You needed people to take care of _you_. That's why you moved in. John couldn't help you. You needed people who could help. People who _can_ help."

Harry nods once, and then stands up, turns, and punches the wall. "I need a drink. God help me, I need a drink."

"You drink when you feel guilty."

"I drink when I feel anything negative. Anger, fear, sadness, and, yes, guilt. It's how I cope. It makes it all go away."

"So how do you cope without drinking?"

Harry glares bitterly at the ground, and when she looks up, Sally's shocked to see that she's crying. "That's the thing. I don't cope. I let it out. I punch things. I punch people. I hurt anyone or anything that happens to be in my way." She takes a shuddering breath. "I'm irrational. I'm violent. I can't trust myself around anyone. At least with the drinking…" She collapses back into her chair at the table. "At least with the drinking, the only person I'm hurting is myself."

"You need an outlet."

"No. What I _need_ is some goddamn willpower."

"We can help you find some other way to express…"

"That's a load of bull, and you know it. What am I supposed to do? Fucking _paint_ my feelings?"

"Maybe."

"Or maybe not. Look, Sally, I know you're trying to help, but right now your face is really putting me off. I'm leaving."

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Oh, not you're not!"

"I am, and you can't fucking stop me!"

"Harry. Please. Calm down. Listen to reason."

"Reason? What good was _reason_ when you _killed_ my brother's best friend? What good was _reason_ when you finally got the opportunity to ruin the man you hated forever? What good was _reason_ when you _completely destroyed_ my _baby brother_?"

"I _had_ reasons!" Sally shouts. "And they were damn good ones! Anyone would have made the same conclusions I did! I was just the only one who actually had the guts to do what was right and report my suspicions! Sherlock Holmes was no god, Harry. He was no saviour. He was a _man_, a brilliant man, but nothing more! He's been idolized by urban legends and whispered rumours, but do you know what? I would do the same thing _again_. Any day. I didn't force anyone to act on my suspicions! There was _evidence_. Hard _evidence_!"

"John's told me about your evidence," Harry snorts derisively. "A child who screamed after being through intense emotional trauma is no _evidence_."

"He was figuring out things no _human being_ could ever figure out! He was suspicious enough that Greg even acted on it! There were _lives_ at risk, Harry, actual _human_ lives. The lives of _children_. I had a moral obligation, as a police officer and as a member of society, to do something!"

"You killed Sherlock Holmes," Harry growls. "And you might as well have killed my brother. I'm going out." She turns on her heel and leaves the flat, slamming the door behind her. Once she's gone, Sally sags into the nearest chair, all her energy taken out of her. She knows she should go after Harry, but she's just so _tired_. Tired of everything, of everyone blaming her for something she had no control of.

"I did what was right," she whispers to herself. "I did what was right."

She has to remember that. It's the only thing she has to keep her afloat in a sea of endless hatred. Everyone hates her. Harry hates her. Greg hates her. Her fellow Yarders hate her. Sometimes, she even sees Molly giving her long, appraising looks, as if she's trying to reconcile the Sally she knows with the Sally that reported Sherlock Holmes.

Sometimes Sally even hates herself. Because sometimes, it's all too much.

She manages to ring Molly at the morgue. Asks her to find Harry. Curls up on her bed and pretends she doesn't exist. Cries until she's out of tears. And finally, as she tosses and turns in her bed, she tries to figure out why the whole world seems so determined to hate her. It can't just be about Sherlock. It must be something more, something fundamentally wrong with her that people just can't stand.

When she wakes up the next morning, Harry's back. At breakfast, Molly constantly shoots her disappointed looks, while Harry steadfastly ignores her. Sally sits uncomfortably, that familiar feeling of being disliked by everyone in the room creeping in on her.

She can't stand the thought of going to work and having to face everyone, so she calls in sick and spends the day wandering around London in a haze. She ends up by the Thames, across from the London Eye. The whole area is bustling with tourists, and she's bumped into more than once. That's just the way of it though. No one truly cares about her in this world. There's not one person that she can bare her soul to, not one person who understands and sympathizes with every aspect of her life. She's alone. And maybe that's how it's meant to be.

"Don't jump, okay?" Next to Sally, Irene Adler slides into view, standing beside her as they both view the murky waters of the Thames.

"Wasn't planning on it."

"Good. I had this whole speech planned about the beauty of life and all that, but it sounds like absolute rubbish."

Sally laughs lightly. "Why are you here?"

"You looked upset." Irene shrugs nonchalantly. "So I followed you. I _am_ good at reading people, you know." She winks teasingly, then sobers. "I figured Molly had Harry well taken care of, but you needed someone too. Molly's a clever girl, but she can be naïve about things. Don't blame her. She really doesn't understand."

"And you do?"

"We beat up your sleazy ex together. I understand more about you than you'd think."

"Right, because you can read it in the stars, or whatever it is you do."

"Wrong. It's because I can read it in _you_." She sighs. "Look Sally, life sucks sometimes. Sometimes there'll be people who hate you. That's just how life is. But look at all these strangers!" She gestures widely to the people bustling about. "No one here cares about you either way! Most of the world doesn't care about you, in fact!"

"Oh, thanks, that's comforting."

"It should be! Because we're living these tiny lives, and the people we affect are tiny people. So who cares what one tiny person does, or what one tiny person thinks? In the long run, what do they matter to you? To the world? The fact is, no one gives a damn about anything. They only care about themselves. That's true even of the most selfless people. We are each the centre of our own personal universes, so you may as well like yourself, because if you don't, you'll have nothing left. Your own universe will have turned against you."

"But how am I supposed to go to work every day and face those people?"

Irene thinks for a moment. "Sally, do you even know most of their names?"

"Not really."

"Can you list ten people off the top of your head who hate you?"

"Um… no, not off the top of my head –"

"Then that shows how much they matter in the long run. They _don't_." Irene smirks. "You have friends on Fleet Street. Molly's your friend. _I'm_ your friend. Harry's your friend…"

"Harry hates me!"

"Harry gets in bad moods. She lashes out when she wants a drink. You just have to stay rational with her and she'll try her best to calm down." She pulls her arm around Sally's shoulder. "We're here for you, I promise."

Irene Adler may be a snake, but she's a snake that's good with words. "Okay," Sally mumbles. "Okay."

"So, do you want to shag?"

"I – no!"

"All right." Irene's voice is light and teasing. "Chill out, tiger."

When they get back to Fleet Street, Molly's gone to work and Harry's reading a book. "Hey," she says when she hears the door open. "Um… about last night."

"Don't say it," Sally says quickly. "And for the record… me too."

Harry nods, a relieved smile making its way across her face. "So, skiving off work?"

"I just couldn't bear to surround myself with morons. It gets to you."

Harry chuckles. "Understandable."

In the end, when Molly gets home from work, they all go out for dinner. Irene doesn't even have a booking, so it's the four of them sitting around a table, laughing like maniacs, and generally making a nuisance of themselves, so that the other patrons begin shooting them dirty looks. Once they finally leave, they walk around the shopping district for a while, peering in shop windows and making comments about the items on display. Molly tries to drag them all into a thrift shop with the most hideous jumpers Sally's ever seen, and Irene is equally enraptured by the smart designer dresses down the street. Harry mostly grumbles over how women care so much about clothing, and what a waste of time it is, but Sally's having the most fun she's had in ages. For once, it's like she truly has friends, best friends, friends she can rely on no matter what.

At another designer shop, Irene whispers quietly for them to all wait outside and watch the show. She struts inside by herself, where she is greeted by a young sales clerk who seems entirely too nervous to be doing a job where he has to talk to the rich. He tries his best to flirt with Irene, who, wide-eyed and doe-like, allows him to slowly win her over. As she bites her lip and looks down at the floor, positively quaking with nerves, Molly begins to giggle. The sale clerk inside the store is looking exceedingly pleased with herself when Irene looks up, grabs his face, and begins to kiss him aggressively. When she pulls away, he looks half aroused and half terrified. Irene, smirking, blows him another kiss, and then exits the store, swinging her hips the whole way.

The girls get halfway down the street before they break out into laughter. "Did you see his face?" Harry howls.

"He looked like he'd died and gone to heaven!" Sally agrees, laughing harder than she has in weeks.

"Did he like it? I couldn't tell," Molly says, sounding so sweet and innocent in her sarcasm that the whole group is practically hysterical.

"It shouldn't be this funny," Harry points out.

"But it is!" Irene shouts. Passers-by are giving them strange looks, but the girls are beyond caring.

"Lordy, Lordy, it's late," Harry says, once they've calmed. "We should get back. I'm tired, and when I'm tired, I'm can't act like a normal human being."

"I don't think any of us can," Molly says, and they all begin to giggle once more.

"I feel like some stupid teenager," Sally says, and it's true, the way they've been acting all night.

Harry nods sagely. "I actually feel alive."

They manage to make it back to Fleet Street without hurting themselves, but it's a close thing. Sally collapses into bed that night feeling that for the first time in a long time, she's truly happy. With these girls, in this flat, she's really and truly happy.

Sure, they have their issues. What friends don't? Irene still acts like a whore around everyone, Molly still hogs the telly, and Harry still has her days when she can't say a kind word to anyone. But, really, that's all right. Sally knows she isn't exactly a perfect ray of sunshine either, but then, she's not really supposed to be. She's a human being, nothing more, nothing less. Her life isn't perfect, but it's her life, and she's going to have to make the best of it.

Sally Donovan is not a patient woman. But this life, right here, right now… this life was worth waiting for.


End file.
